And I'm Alone
by Charming Visions
Summary: Rated R for language. It's finally come to it. Roger, Mimi, Collins, and Angel are all dead. Maureen and Joanne no longer speak with Marc, he's alone. One-shot


A/N: This may only be a one-shot, I'll just have to see where my hands take me.  
  
Summary: It's finally happened, Mark is all alone. Mimi, Roger, Collins they are all gone. Maureen and Joanne are still there, supposedly.  
  
When I capture it on film...  
  
You know, it's hard to remember a time that was truly happy. Hard for me to remember a time when the thought of a friend dying was as absurd as the thought of my friends dying because of AIDS. The first to go was Angel. Well, to be technical it was April, damn her. Selfish bitch really tore at Roger. Took him a long time to get over her death, a suicide no less, a coward's death if you ask me. It wasn't easy, walking in that bathroom to find April's lifeless body sinking in her own blood. It wasn't until then that I realized how much blood fills the body. Researches and idiots all alike say that water makes up most of the human body, but what is that percentage compared to blood. I remember everything from that day. Roger's broken cries hit me the hardest though. Roger had always been there for me, sort of a guardian, and a protector. He was my best friend and he had done everything for me. Yet there he was in his deepest needs and what could I do? Tell him it would be alright? The pain would ease in time? Bullshit. Nothing would be the same afterwards, and her shit forsaken letter proved it. 'We have AIDS,' what kind of letter is that? No words of devotion or love? Even a "Bye Honey, you were great in bed!" Would have been better.  
  
A year went by, then two, and finally Roger woke up to the world. He finally began letting others in. Mimi for one, Angel for another. Both were miracles. Mimi and Angel, like Roger, had AIDS. Unlike Roger, Angel was gay, a Drag Queen, and the love of Collins's life (Whom also had AIDS, Jesus am I a fucking AIDS support group or what?). Homosexuality didn't bother me, never had, maybe that was why I was so oblivious to the fact that my ex-girlfriend was a bisexual. But I remember how close Angel and I grew together. He, well she really, depending on how you want to look at, seemed to understand my fears. Angel made no promises, no guarantees, and I loved him dearly for it. It just isn't possible for a dying man, to give promises of "I'll never leave you." I've never been given that promise or guarantee, which probably explains my current situation. But back to my past, it's sort of a...a prologue if you will. Angel died later that year, sending Roger into another panic. I guess up until then he lived in this different reality in which neither he nor Mimi had AIDS. A reality in which the two of them would always be together. Kind of pathetic I know. However, after Angel's death he left for Santa Fe, leaving Mimi and the rest of us behind, gawking at his contempt and utter hatred for life and self.  
  
He finally wised up though, he always did. He came back, and after almost losing her once to Angel's fate, never left her side. He realized then how quickly life was ending for him and Mimi, and I guess he finally understood Mimi's constant preachings of "No Day but Today." Two people whom I haven't spoken of, Maureen and Joanne played a part in this. I don't know why, but I don't speak or even think much of them. We used to be friends, but after everything, I guess it was one of those friendships I couldn't and didn't want to keep. I still don't. They are happy together, and I guess that's all that matters. However, the point of it was that they were there, arguing and bitching all day long, but there, being somewhat supportive of us, and grieved just as much as we did. Maureen is my ex-girlfriend. The bisexual with strong lesbian tendencies I spoke of earlier. Now that I look on it, I think I was just an experiment to prove that she was a lesbian. She toyed with a lot of people, men and women alike. I guess she liked the attention. Stupid self-seeking bitch.  
  
Well, after Angel died Mimi was next. It was obvious, and everyone knew it was coming. She died with grace though, if that's possible. "Dying with grace." Roger was by her side of course, and he surprised us all. He didn't go into his usual mental breakdown, well, at least not until later. Collins soon followed, his death not nearly as neat as Angel or Mimi's. No one exactly knew what he died from, but he bled constantly. I watched him die. I was there when he finally closed his eyes. I was there when he went to Angel. After that Roger went into his crisis mode. As I said, Roger was my best friend, but he was always so damn selfish when it came to emotions. Always forgot there were the rest of us who were dealing with the three deaths and preparing for a fourth. He refused to eat, he refused to speak, and he didn't even sleep. Just stared at his guitar all day long. Hell, I would have been happy if he hid himself in his music. But he didn't dare touch his guitar just stared at it. He seemed to be willing death along. I wouldn't put it past him. One week before he died, he finally broke out of his trance. He threw his guitar against the wall and tried to get out of bed. He collapsed on the floor, and I was there to pick up the shattered remains that were indeed Roger. I picked him up and placed him back in bed. He was so light; it felt like he weighed the amount of a six year old girl. I didn't tell him that. He knew it, and he began to eat again. Small portions at first and medium portions when he died.  
  
His death was the hardest. I don't remember the day, I don't remember the hour, but I'm sure if anyone really wanted to know, they could find it out by his grave. I walked into his room the night before he died and he seemed somewhat peaceful. He was so thin, his eyes were sunken in, his skin was yellowish-gray, transparent, and papery thin. He wore baggy clothes to cover the skin that hung off his ribs. He resembled a dressed up corpse at a funeral. An old one at that. He however smiled at me warmly and held out his hand. I walked over to the bed and stood there, concern filling every morsel of my body. I remember the conversation we held. And I remember he started crying. No sobs, wails, or screams. Just silent tears that burned themselves into his sallow cheeks. It was then that I knew. My best friend was not going to wake up in the morning. He was not going to go see another sunrise, and he was never going to play that damned guitar again. This person that laid with his back against the beaten headboard was my best friend and I was watching him die with no surprise whatsoever. The thing I've learned about deaths is that none of them are the same. Screw whatever autopsies or doctor reports or whatever the hell a person needs to see in order to believe that someone they once loved is gone, each death is different, each person sees something before they die that not one other person has seen. He smiled gently at me; the tears still falling and he pulled my head down and kissed my forehead. The last thing he said to me was, "Mark, I love you, you are my family, my brother, my confident, and my best friend. Promise me this, that whatever you do, wherever you go, you will live. For me. God knows I didn't ask for this, God knows I didn't want this. But life doesn't ask questions, and life could care for shit what a person wants. But this is what I want from you. Live. Don't fall into bitterness like I have so many times. You are the one person I have always been able to rely on, and I know I've been a fucking screw up more times than I want think. Forgive me please." I nodded, tears breaking free from my eyes while his tears etched their way into my heart. Never once did anyone cry for me, and here Roger was, a selfish dramatic fool, crying for me. He wanted me to live, fuck that, I don't know what living is anymore. Yet I nodded and he kissed my eyelids before falling asleep. I went into his room the next morning and I could feel it. I didn't need to say a word, and I didn't need to touch him to know. My best friend was gone, left me behind and I had nothing.  
  
It has been six months since Roger's death. Six months isn't a long time. But here I am walking around this damn city like a mindless idiot lost and alone. I've accepted it. I've accepted the reality that I was only given a few years of friendship. And I've accepted the fact that all of it was snatched away from me in one seemingly small breath. Roger asked me to live. Well what the fuck do I have to live for? An empty loft that has every memory, every laugh, every tear, every smile, and every heartache painted on its walls. A loft that seems to mock the fact that I'm alone by it's space, by the two extra rooms and the water that no longer grows cold. By the cupboards that, no matter how long I go without buying food, never seem to be as empty as they were when Roger, Mimi, Collins, and Angel were living.  
  
Here's something rich, maybe I'm meant to live for my film. If I hadn't hidden behind my film so much maybe I would have been able to interact in the taped memories, instead of being the fucking bystander that taped it. Everything that ever happened I taped and even though I was there and I knew those people, sometimes I feel like a stranger looking in on a family's Thanksgiving dinner. What is really hilarious is that right after Roger's death I killed my camera. That's right; I threw that sadistic bitch right out the window and watched as cabs and busses ran over it, causing its robotic guts to spew over the city. Why was I given this duty? This damn job to live. Why wasn't I taken with them? It's not as though I plan on walking out in front of a moving bus or something, but that question lingers.  
  
Was I so damn special at one point? Or is this universe's way of breaking up the monotony and figuring that I am an open target so mock me and force feed me the pain I've endured a hundred times. I really am though. I'm a broken man, I've lost the people that meant everything to me, and I'm pouring my heart out to an audience that probably hasn't a clue as to what is going through my mind. What pisses me off the most is that it seems as if every one of their deaths was in vain. No one will remember their names, or their faces. And if anything they'll be remembered as a whore, a used up junkie, a drag queen, and a queer professor, all of whom supposedly wore signs that stated "Give Me AZT or Give Me Death." No one will remember the girl who had so much life, who was so ready to spread her wings and fly, who knew that each day is a new day. Or the musician who spent his life in his music, who put his heart out willingly for those to see if they dared to listen, who understood more pain and accepted more than most will ever. Or the beautiful smile that played drums, whose willingness to love and conquer life constantly surprised me. Or the man who knew so much, and kept us all in line, saving our asses more than once, and spreading his philosophy to the world. Who cares about those stories? Smut sells more right. Right.  
  
I wish for one second someone, anyone would see me and I would no longer be alone. I wish that for one second everyone would remove their masks and glance at each other. Who knows what they might find. A seemingly over confident bitch just might be a single mother raising four kids on her own salary. Behind the mask of a "trouble maker" just may be a kid dying to be a pilot. A homeless man may be the kind of man to give you his one and only dollar when your short cab fare. It doesn't matter though does it? Life is just a game. We are the pawns and we move to the count of imaginary hands. I know what it is to be "Dying in America" because I am dying. I may be physically living, but I've always feared loneliness and because of that I'm dying. Roger asked for me to live; now I ask of you, how?

* * *

_ "Why am I the witness  
And when I capture it on film  
Will it mean that it's the end  
And I'm alone"_  
** _ Marc Cohen_**

* * *

**A year after Mark wrote this, he was killed, murdered really. The circumstances of his death do not really matter. It does not change anything. But I have a question for you. How do you live in a world where the reality is a nightmare? Do you continue walking and secretly hope it changes? Or do you change it for yourself, knowing you will most likely fail and fall. The decision comes down to fear or love. But don't tell me what your answer is, do it, after all actions speak louder than words.**


End file.
